


Im-Print

by Clarounette



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bloodplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clarounette/pseuds/Clarounette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newspaper AU - James, chief editor, is furious with one of his writers, Fassbender. How will it end?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Im-Print

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oonaseckar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/gifts).



> Written for Oonaseckar’s prompt

He hanged up and shouted : "Fassbender !"

Heavy footsteps rushed to his office. A quick knock on the door, and Fassbender opened it. 

"Yes, boss ?"

"Since you're doing nothing right now..."

"Actually, boss, I was writing about Mrs Phelps and her dog Mildred," Fassbender interrupted. But he lowered his head in a silent apology when he saw eyes burning with rage looking at him.

"Since you're doing nothing right now, I said, I want you to meet with Harry at the corner of 3rd Avenue and 12th Street. There's a protest at Parsons School. He'll take the pictures."

Fassbender didn't move at once, which irritated his boss. "Go ! Go ! What are you waiting for ?"  
In an instant, Fassbender was gone.

James McAvoy was the ambitious chief editor of a newspaper. Successful, admired, even feared, he was quite happy with his job. Well he had been, until they hired a new writer.

Fassbender was good. His articles ranked top in the readers' favorites. But the man was also incredibly attractive, and the effect of that attractiveness on James's work was disastrous. That was the reason for James to send Fassbender away as much as he could, unless he would stare longingly at his back through the glass-walls of his office, for hours. And that would not do.

Now that the man was gone, James felt relieved, finally able to work. He checked the blueprints of the next edition sent by the printing room. The layout was excellent, with place for late articles if needed. Time to edit it.

"Jenny !" he shouted again.

The blonde girl showed up in the doorway with a great smile. She seemed to be the only one not afraid of James's screams.

"To the proofreaders," he told her, holding out the blueprints.

"Yes, sir." And she was gone.

If only Fassbender was able to be that quick to follow his orders ! But no, the man always had something to add, or an excuse to give. That James could still have the final say was a miracle.

It was late in the afternoon. The evening edition was in print and would be delivered on time. Yet James hadn't heard from Fassbender. He was wondering if maybe the writer had been arrested, or hurt during the protest, when Fassbender walked through the door, sheets of paper in his hand.

"Sorry, boss. My phone died, and my tablet too. I had to write my article by hand, and bring it to you," he said, out of breath.

James was beyond rage. "Too late," he answered in an astonishingly calm voice. He stood up and left his office to go to the print room, to check the process. Fassbender was on his heels.

"Boss !"

"It'll be on tomorrow morning edition. Go and type it so we can actually use it." He entered the elevator, and Fassbender went with him. It was all James could do to keep his act : having the man so close to him in a closed space was making him forget why he was angry.

They arrived in the basement and the door opened. The room was filled with the rotary press. In a small office on their left, the engineer was checking datas from the machine, ready to bounce if it showed any sign of failure. At the other end of the basement, men were packing newspapers and charging them at the back of a truck.

"Listen, boss ! I'm sorry ! I did my best but..."

"Shut up, you bastard ! I want a solution, not excuses !"

Fassbender frowned. "I don't have a solution. I can't go back in time, you know ?"

"Then do your job ! That's the least you can do after fucking up !" James was in front of the press, looking at half-printed newspapers passing before his eyes. There was no answer, and the editor thought that, finally, Fassbender had listened to him and done what he's said.

But when he turned around, the man was still here, seething with rage.

"Since I came here, you have treated me like a dog. I'm sick of your insults !... Boss," he added as an afterthought.

"Oh yeah ? Then leave ! And go fuck yourself !" James knew he was acting like a child, and that he would rather have Fassbender fuck him. But the writer's rebellious attitude was throwing him off balance. To hide his shame and his blushing cheeks, he turned to the press. Frustration made him slam his hand on a control panel... which had sharp edges.

"Awww fuck !" A long gash on his right palm was starting to bleed.

"Let me look at it !" Fassbender was holding his hand while taking a handkerchief out of his pocket. But James's hand bled through the white piece of cloth in a matter of seconds. Michael sighed and brought James's palm to his lips. Under his editor's wide eyes, Fassbender licked the wound, again and again, until it stopped bleeding.

The feeling of Fassbender's tongue on his palm sent jolts of desire to James's groin. "Fassbender, what the fuck are..."

"Michael," he interrupted. "My name is Michael."

At a loss for words, James kept staring at the tall man in front of him, who was still holding his hand like it was a precious baby bird.

Worried by James's lack of reaction, Michael asked : "Are you okay ?"

"No, but I'm sure you can help," James answered, just before he crashed his mouth onto Michael's. A second later, Michael was kissing him back fiercely.

What they did after that, in a dark corner of the print room, then at the back of the truck – hidden behind boxes of newspaper – is left to your imagination. Let's just say that the next time James screamed at Michael, it was in the throes of passion.


End file.
